


Cooking Up Love

by orphan_account



Series: The Way to A Man's Heart [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Chef Steve Rogers, Happy Ending, I hope that doesnt become a theme in my fics, I pinky promise, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, PTSD, Past Abuse, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sarah owns a chain of 5 star diners, Sarah smiles like Sarah doesn't care, She lives in a world so unaware, Sorry Not Sorry, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tattoo Artist Bucky Barnes, self hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:21:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve loved what he did, cooking up meals to give hope, happiness, just anything to help someone. But he always felt like something was missing from his life, something important. So maybe it was destiny that a mysterious stranger came into diner late one night, or should he say early one day? It didn't matter to Steve at the moment because <i>sweet sassy molassy...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here it goes again

**Author's Note:**

> *Evil laughter* Man, the things I dream about.

The diner was empty, as it was most days around 3 a.m. Steve and the other cooks were getting everything ready, waiting for the rush of costumers that all wanted SHIELD's special breakfast. They had to get the diner situated _way_ before the stream came. Way, way, way, before. Steve guessed that's what you get for working here, or being born into it. SHIELD: protecting you from hunger. What a lifestyle to be brought up in.

He sighed, getting a bachelors in Culinary arts had all led to this. Le Cordon Bleu was good at what it did. HD wasn't complaining at all, he loved this. Loved cooking, loved making someone's day, loved loved loved. To bad he can't _be_ loved... Who would want a small, asthmatic boyfriend?

Steve shook his head, he didn't have time for this. He turned, walking out of the kitchen. Loki leaned boredly by the cash register, tapping away with his fingers. He glared at Steve, but Steve knew that was Loki's way of saying, "hello". It was best to let Loki be, his brother, Thor, was the complete opposite of him.

Steve set up the tables. Salt to the left of pepper, sugar by in front of the napkins, four menus laid out... It was all routine to him, ever since he turned 16. 9 years have gone by, and he can _still_ do it without thinking. It was just ingrained in his mind, forever to be known.

The entrance bell chimed, announcing a costumer. He knew that Angie Martinelli would be there to greet them and take their order, they knew that sometimes loners came here early. The bell chimed again, and he looked up briefly, slightly shocked that people would be coming this early. Thunder rumbled outside.

His eye widened, because he knew exactly who the first person was. Brock Rumlow. He saw Angie's step falter, having received harassment, she wasn't too excited to wait him. The second person had their hood up, so Steve couldn't get a good look on them. It wasn't the rain that dampened Angie's joyful mood.

Angie, with a fake smile, walked up to Brock, gesturing to the nearest table to sit at. He sneered at her. Steve didn't know how his mother let Brock into the diner. 

"How may I help you," Angie asked cheerfully. Brock plopped down onto the red leather seats with a grunt. The second person stood by the door, head down. They were shifting from one foot to another.

"How bout some Star-spangled pancakes for me, a turkey club omelet for the boy," he jerked his head backwards, to the person still by the door. He didn't comment, just kept switching feet to stand on, boots making little squeaking noises. What a day for it to rain.

"Get ova here, what are you waiting for," Brock snapped. The hesitant stranger walked stiffly Brock. He pretty much collapsed into the seat, head resting on the marble table. Brock shook his head disapprovingly.

"And drinks," Angie questioned, notepad in hand. She looked up when she didn't get a response. Brock was staring at her with disgust. 

"Bitch, you already know what I want! And its certainly not you! Don't you waitresses go to school, or are you caring for some baby without a father? They shouldn't even let you _women_ out of the house. You can't even take an order! To think I joined to army to protect the likes of _you_!"

Brock slammed his fist down onto the table, making it shake with the force. His face was red, breaths coming out in irritated huffs. He glared at her, challenging her when he knew she couldn't. Besides, the costumers were always right.

All the staff stopped, no noise coming from the usually loud kitchen. Even Loki looked surprised. Angie sniffed, turning to hide the tears that were threatening to spill. When she turned, starting to walk away to hide in the kitchen, raised a hand and slapped her behind. 

"It's not like the food's good anyway," Brock grumbled, "Nor are the waitresses looks. What a disappointment." Angie reached the kitchen, pushing the door open with shaking hands. A loud sob rang out from behind the closed doors.

Steve turned, about to confront Brock. He hated bullies. Before he could get even near him, a very angry looking Peggy burst from the kitchen. Her face was red, eye twitching slightly. She strode to Brock, a fork in her hand.

Peggy pressed the fork to his chest. Brock stood up, the fork never moving away from his body. Peggy, who said she worked for the government, was not a force to mess with. 

"You. Do. Not. Treat. People. Like. That." She said slowly in a steady British accent. Even when she wanted to kill someone, she never let herself lose her calm. Brock smirked. She tapped the fork to emphasize each word.

"Oh yea, what you gunna do bout it." He asked with a raised eyebrow. Steve stood there, glaring daggers at Brock. He knew Peggy could handle.

"Well," she smirked, making Brock drop his, confused. "You are going to tip us really well... Say, one thousand dollars, _or_ you're going to jail for _at least_ 5 years. And you don't want to know what they do to sexists where you're going." She smiled, tilting her head. The fork stayed embedded in Brocks jacket.

"I have friends in high places. I can send you to the worst prison there is." She smiled at him again, only the redness of her face betraying her anger. Brock gulped. He pulled out his wallet quickly, leaning over the table to write out a check. The fork stayed where it was.

He slammed the check down in the middle of the table, turning to speed towards the door. He threw a, "Come on," over his shoulder, before the bell chimed his leaving. The rain outside sounded worse, flashes over lightning going off every few seconds.

Both Steve and Peggy looked down at the stranger, his head still resting on the cool surface of the table. He made no attempt. Peggy looked at Steve questioningly, before shrugging and briskly walking back to the kitchen. He heard the doors swing open, and then close. Loki resumed tapping his fingers to a beat Steve didn't recognize.

Steve slowly walked over the the stranger, unsure what he should do now. His hand hovered over their shoulder, before shaking. The stranger jerked away and lifted his head to stare at Steve. He didn't have to tilt his head far, with Steve barely being over 5 feet. The guy stayed at him blankly, with blue eyes to rival the storm outside.

"Can I get some orange juice?"


	2. Put on that deserving tone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward Steve? Lost puppy Bucky? Somewhat-protective Nat? This made me tired... Zzz...

"Wait, what? Oh yea, I'll, um, go get," Steve turned away, already walking away with a burning face. He lifted up the counter to get behind Loki, who was in front of the soda machine. He would get ice and cup from here, then go to the back to get Fury Grove fresh orange juice. Fury Grove was first made to make fun on Angry Orchard, but became popular later on.

"Be careful young Stevie, this one has seen much," Loki didn't glance his way, too focused on the _tap, tap, tap,_ of his fingers. Steve gulped, because even if Loki didn't talk much, when he did, you listened. Loki was a pretty scary guy.

Steve nodded, Loki would know he did without looking at him. He went to work on the machine, cup first (Good thing they're below the machine), extra ice to save money (Even when they didn't have too) and started to make his way to the kitchen. He didn't have to get far, before Angie, red face and puffy eyes, walked out with the pitcher in hand. 

"I heard," she croaked out, sniffing loudly. She went and grabbed to cup from Steve before making her way to the only costumer. He didn't look up, weaving his fingers together and avoiding any attempt at conversation. Not that Angie wanted to converse (Steve still thinks the word should be conversate).

She quickly set the glass down and poured a generous amount into his cup. She didn't bother talking to anyone else, she just wanted to seek refuge in the kitchen once more.

Steve stood there, unsure again. He rubbed his right arm with his left, thinking of what to do now. Loki noticed, like he did with everything else, and motioned Steve to _come hither_. 

"Why don't you rest up for the big day to come," he said quietly, "We'll, well not exactly _me_ , call you, ooh, also not directly, around 11:37... Ish. Can't seem to see past the..." He cleared his throat, placing his hands palm down (He'll start tapping soon enough) staring Steve straight in the eye. "You'll be going home now, be sure to make friends this stranger."

Steve felt... Strange, like he had to do it. He handed Loki the apron that he had forgotten he was wearing, and made his to the door. The rain had surprisingly stopped its torment. He didn't seem to remember the last thing Loki said. Did he even say anything after he said he'll call Steve? 

"Hey," Loki called out. Steve turned to see Loki dangling his keys from his pinky. _When did he get those?_ Loki threw them suddenly, and Steve caught them. Barely. He smiled weakly.

Once finally outside, he went straight to his grandfather's 1940's Harley. Ah, how he loved being friends to Tony Stark: engineer, tattoo shop owner, playboy, philanthropist, the usual. Tony had done a great job in restoring it. 

He sat gently on the seat, _and have you ever felt the warm embrace of the leather seat between your legs?_  
Steve turned the keys, the engine roaring to life. He was about to set off when the stranger from inside the diner came stumbling out. 

"Hey, uh, man," he stammered, getting closer to Steve. "I don't really know where to go, and I was wondering if," he shrugged, "I could crash at, maybe your place." He smiled nervously, wringing his gloved hands together. Steve stared at him blankly.

"Sure..." Steve said slowly, narrowing his eyes slightly. He was too kind for his own good, even when it _might_ be dangerous. The stranger finally looked up, so much hope in those beautiful eyes... Steve shook his head, "But," the strangers smile dropped, something like fear replacing it, "I'll need your name- Oh and don't stop there! Pick it up and put it in the grass."

Confused by Steve's outburst, he looked down to where his right foot hovered over the concrete. Beneath it, an earthworm that the storm had surfaced. He raised an eyebrow at Steve, who shrugged, but did what he was told.

"There," he said exasperatedly, "And the name's James Buchanan Barnes. But I prefer Bucky," he added with a wink. Bucky's storm blue eyes traveled down to Steve's bike. His jaws dropped. 

"Omg is that a Harley," his excitement was barely. He pretty much jumped up and down. "Can I touch it? Canicanicani?" Bucky pulled back his hood, allowing Steve to finally good a look at him, and _sweet Jesus, Joseph and Mary._ He can touch more than just his bike.

Steve noticed Bucky's eyes droop, he was swaying on his feet. He was way to excited to notice that he was tired. Way too excited.

"Hey Buck," Steve frowned, "How 'bout we get you to my place, then you can do what you want." Bucky grinned mischievously at this.

"Is this your way of asking me out? I don't even know your name!" But he got on any, wrapping his arms around Steve's tiny waist and burying himself into Steve's form. He sighed into Steve's neck.

-_-_-_-_-_-_

All Steve could think about was those arms around him, the hot exhale on his, how low those hands were.... It was a good thing he lived close to the diner. And he couldn't place it, but Bucky's left arm felt... Off.

He pulled into his driveway, his small, but cozy, house looming in front of him. He smiled slightly, as he always did when he looked about. This house held memories, more so once his mother left to give him 'privacy'. He knew she didn't like to waking up to him blasting music.

He turned to look over his shoulder, coming face to face with a sleeping Bucky. He froze for a second, not wanting to disturb the man when he looked so peaceful, but it would better once he was asleep on the spare bed Steve kept for when his friends visited.

"Hey," he whispered. Bucky jerked, arms tightening around Steve. He stared at Steve groggily, question marks swarming in his eyes.

"Hmm? We're here," he yawned the question. He let go of Steve, standing up to stretch, Steve followed suit. Bucky's shirt raised a bit, and Steve wished he could see more...

Snapping out of his thoughts, he turned his motorcycle off, walking the distance to the stairs that led to the front door. The crunch of gravel told him that Bucky was following him.

He jumped up the steps like he was still a child. He swore he could hear Bucky snort. Unlocking the door, he stepped in, flicking the lights on. The pale, white illuminated the living room. Bucky let out an appreciative whistle. Two leather couches were facing a large flat screen. Various paintings hung on the walls surrounding the room.

"The spare bedroom is the first on the right in the hallway, mine's across from it." Steve pointed behind the leather couch. Bucky nodded, and made his way over to his room. He hesitated in front of the.

"Hey, uh, generous stranger whose name I don't know, you sure this is okay? I mean, I don't want to bother you." Steve shook his head, chuckling.

"It's Steve Rogers, and it's perfectly fine, as long as you're not some murderer." Something flashed across Bucky's face, but it was too quick for Steve to classify as important. 

"Now," Steve clapped his hands together, "Let's get some sleep," _maybe more with you, Mr Molassy._ They went to their rooms, and only one found sleep easy to come by.

-_-_-_-_-_-_

"Psst, hey Stevie?" Bucky shook his shoulder. Steve opened his eyes, squinting at the little sunlight that got in. Bucky leaned over him with wide eyes.

"Can I sleep with you? I, I don't want to be alone, i-if that's okay with you." He looked at Steve like he hung the moon. Steve, still half asleep and not exactly sure what was happening, nodded. He was asleep again before Bucky cuddled up to him.

-_-_-_-_-_-_

The sound of a phone ringing woke Steve up for the second time. He lifted his head to see Bucky standing up, holding a phone to his ear. His other hand rested on his hip.

"I'm fine Nat, yes yes I know," a pause, "Steve Rogers, what? Yeah, that Steve I guess.I know it wasn't safe, but he seemed nice!" Bucky whined, "Fine fine, I'll go to your place at 2. Its only 11:37 now, don't worry. Buh-bye. Mwah" He sighed, ending the call. 

Turning around and seeing Steve watching him, Bucky smiled. He leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss to Steve's forehead. 

"Let's go back to bed," he mumbled into Steve's hair. Crawling over Steve, he wrapped him in a warm embrace, never wanting to let go. Steve fell into the best sleep he's had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I love Cartel. So many music references to make.... *Btw, this story is coming from someone with little to none experience in da cooking stuff, and I haven't been to a diner in yeeeeaaaarrrsss*  
> 


End file.
